


These roads all lead back home

by nerrin



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Related, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, One Night Stands, Spoilers, Spoilers for Defender's Oath up till Frost and Flame, and siegfried learning about aglovale's kingship, mending family relationships between the wales brothers, they are also sex friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-01 17:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16769584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerrin/pseuds/nerrin
Summary: “You’re still alive, Aglovale,” says Siegfried. “It’s a start.”It takes more than a single man to hold up a country, unless the only kingdom he rules is himself. Siegfried learns about the way of kings besides his own, and Aglovale builds Wales from the ghosts of his past. Pre-Defender's Oath to Post-Frost and Flame.





	These roads all lead back home

Siegfried hears of Aglovale before he sees him, via whispers that travel easily upon the lips of his men, running up and down the castle halls as security is tightened for the night. The newly-crowned king of Wales has made his way safely across Feendrache’s border, and is due to arrive no later than this evening.

If he could, he would have convinced Percival to stay. But Siegfried recognizes stubborn resistance when he sees it, a low and resolute flame burning deep in the younger knight’s eyes as he turns his gaze away. From where they stand in the stone-hewn corridor flanked by open windows, Percival looks down upon the uneven spread of rooftops with their slanted chimneys - the residencies that make up the capital city - and schools his expression into a mask of neutrality, grinding out that he would not be available to entertain his older brother today. Perhaps another time.

Siegfried nods in understanding. He knows that the other man has not returned to Wales in an age, the last time being for the late king’s funeral. There is likely a story there that Percival would tell them all someday. Siegfried drops the thread of conversation, leaving Percival alone with his thoughts.

Later, he is pulled aside by Lancelot as the day shifts into dusk, and finds himself immediately assailed by the knight’s enthusiasm.

“Leave patrolling of the grounds to us,” Lancelot says, his eyes burning like hot coals. “Everyone will be on their best behavior. After all, this is the first visitation from Wales that we’ve had ever since the previous -”

Siegfried laughs quietly, waving a casual hand and nodding his thanks before Lancelot can complete his sentence. He knows what Lancelot wants to say, the unspoken words hanging between them - _since the previous lordship_ , before the upheaval that heralded Percival’s arrival to their kingdom’s doorstep. It had been such a long time ago. That made today a big day.

“I’ve been informed that I would be standing guard by the king,” Siegfried continues. The last rays of the setting sun are beginning to fade, replaced slowly by glowing candlelight. “I have to get ready. It’s almost time to receive him by the gates.”

“Shall I accompany you along the way?”

“No need. You should see to those on patrol duty.”

“Understood.”

Lancelot turns to leave, a mission in his stride and Siegfried watches him go. There is a beat of silence and then a thought blooms in his mind, words falling from his lips before he can think better of them.

“Wait,” Siegfried calls. His voice is quiet but the sound carries in the empty corridor. “Has Percival ever spoken to you about this brother of his?”

Lancelot’s footfalls cease. There is a pointed silence when he pauses, expression thoughtful as he looks back to where Siegfried still stands. Siegfried is experienced enough to know that some silences are awkward and excruciating, but he can tell that Lancelot is simply measuring against memory, picking out the right words to divulge however little he knows.

“He doesn’t talk about his family much,” Lancelot offers at last, his smile sheepish. “He’s the youngest of three siblings. Now one of them is king, and the other...I’m not sure. If he hasn’t told you anything, he wouldn’t have told me either.”

Siegfried nods. He’ll just have to work with that, then.

“Thank you,” he says, and Lancelot’s smile eases immediately into something more comfortable and young. He looks more his age in moments like this one.

“Don’t mention it,” Lancelot says. There’s a daring look in his eyes as he ducks back around the corner, voice rising in volume as he disappears from Siegfried’s view. “Anyway, it’s _Percival’s_ older brother. He must be quite the character!”

Siegfried lets himself snort out an amused laugh at Lancelot’s remark, however unbecoming it was. There is, he supposes, some truth to that observation.

Aglovale, as it turns out, is indeed quite the character.

For starters, he is not a redhead. Siegfried had wrongly assumed that Percival’s older brother would have looked something like Percival - and though Aglovale carries himself with the same assured pride, his armor is carved from icy blues and silvers, strands of his straw-colored hair tickling against the polished metal. He surveys his entourage with curious, probing eyes, his face impassive.

Siegfried lets the king do most of the talking. Aglovale engages in polite conversation as they walk up the stone pavement towards the open gates of the castle, cutting through the front courtyard and the gardens. The greatsword strapped to Siegfried’s back is unwieldy, almost unnecessary in such a formal situation, and he finds his gaze wandering from the shadows creeping around trimmed bushes until he eventually fixates upon the golden hilt of the impressive longsword by Aglovale’s side. The weapon is safely in its sheath, though he wonders what it must look like to have the king himself draw such a blade. Even from this distance, it is clear that Aglovale’s sword is of magnificent craft.

The next thing that strikes Siegfried as odd is how the man declines all semblance of a guard before he makes to retreat to the bedchambers they have prepared for him.

“I require no such assistance,” Aglovale says, voice low and assured in the same way that the evening was certain to descend upon the land and lead it into night, inevitable. “The thought is deeply appreciated. I cannot impose any further upon you and the other knights.”

“Allow me to at least guide you to the room.” Siegfried adjusts the sword upon his back. The weight of it is familiar and somewhat comforting.

Aglovale’s gaze flickers for a brief instant to the large weapon, then back to Siegfried. “Thank you,” he starts, then, “that’s a rather impressive sword. Did you earn your title of Dragonslayer with it?”

The sudden curve in topic nearly throws Siegfried for a loop. Fortunately, Aglovale’s question is one that he’s had practice with answering.

“I did. It’s an old partner of mine by now.”

“I see,” muses Aglovale. His strides are long and purposeful, keeping up with Siegfried’s pace with ease. “I wonder if I could ever share such a bond with my own.”

He sounds genuinely mystified, and Siegfried does not consider himself so bad with human emotion that he cannot tell when another person is amused. And Aglovale is, if anything, finding some sort of dry entertainment in the moment.

“Does it matter if you don’t?” Siegfried risks a question to the king.

“Not much, no. I’m more interested in the skills of the knight who’d slain the great dragon Fafnir.”

This time, Siegfried actually does halt in his tracks. In part because they’ve finally arrived before the closed oakwood doors of Aglovale’s appointed chambers, but mostly he stands unsure of what to do with himself, because the king of Wales has not-too-subtly propositioned him for a clash of blades. Siegfried wonders if accepting Aglovale’s invitation would be akin to flouting some unspoken rule of royalty. A twinge of regret that he’s neglected to read up on etiquette lodges suddenly in his chest.

Anyway, it seems impolite to decline.

“Oh. Would you like me to demonstrate?” Siegfried hazards the vaguest reply that he can manage.

His words seem to have the desired effect. A pleased smile spreads itself slowly across Aglovale’s face. The expression is so strikingly familiar, and Siegfried is reminded vividly of Percival - when the younger knight succeeds against the odds, emerging victorious from a rough fight with his wild red hair slightly tousled and pride flashing in his eyes. In Siegfried’s memories, Percival laughs when he triumphs, confident. Aglovale is not laughing now, but Siegfried sees that same fire all the same.

The king of Wales may not be a redhead, but he is most certainly Percival’s older brother.

“Did something catch your attention?”

Aglovale’s quizzical inquiry reminds Siegfried that he still has a task that he’s yet to complete. Blinking some sense back into his mortal shell, Siegfried gestures at the closed doors to the chamber. “Apologies, I was caught up in some thoughts. I’ll take my leave here.”

“Very well.” A look of expectance seems to have made its home on Aglovale’s face. “I will see you in the morning.” Siegfried watches the other man’s hand hover over the metal knocker affixed to the door’s surface, still bordering on the threshold of entry.

“In the morning,” Siegfried promises. That is apparently the right thing to say, because Aglovale’s gaze drops from his person down to the floor, before snapping up to the old wooden doors.

“I’ll have plenty of time before the meeting with your king tomorrow afternoon,” he mutters, “now I’ve found an interesting way to spend it.”

Siegfried is fairly certain that Aglovale had meant for him to hear that. But Aglovale does not wait for a response, pushing into the room. The sharp sound of a heavy set of doors slamming shut reverberates down the halls. Siegfried is left staring after him, with nothing but a whirlwind of cold breeze to indicate that Aglovale had once been there, wondering if it was quite alright that he be dismissed here.

“Oh! He’s back!” Lancelot calls, when Siegfried returns to the mess hall. “How did it go?”

Most of the Order are gathered around the long benches for their usual late-night drinks and party games, though the mood is somewhat livelier tonight. It takes Siegfried several moments to locate Lancelot, squashed between the bodies of his fellows as they crowd around their tankards, heads pressed together in low gossip.

“It was fine?” Siegfried wanders up to Lancelot’s side, and the other knights around the deputy commander scoot away to make space for him. He settles into the firm seat gratefully. “I don’t know, really. Maybe you were right.”

“What? Wait, before I - Vane!” Lancelot turns around, gesturing wildly at a blond knight chatting with another group a few tables down. The blond man glances up at his name, spotting Lancelot and quickly signing something back. Lancelot nods once in affirmation and Vane takes off immediately, vanishing into the crowd.

Siegfried watches the entire exchange with raised brows. Some kind of code that he was none the wiser to had apparently passed between the two men.

Lancelot swivels back to face him, childlike excitement in his eyes. “You were saying?”

Siegfried removes his gaze from the other knights crowding the hall. “We were talking about the king of Wales.”

“Aglovale, Percival’s older brother. Oldest brother,” Lancelot corrects himself. “You mean, he really does act like Percival?”

Siegfried ponders the question. He can see hints of the same noble upbringing in both men, a strict yet kind guidance in the charisma that those of the House of Wales seem to naturally radiate. But the truth is that he’s not yet familiar with Aglovale, and Percival is nowhere in sight to confirm the facts. He settles on an ambiguous shrug of the shoulders.

“No way, _two_ Percivals?” comes an unfamiliar voice, and Siegfried glances sideways to see the same blond knight from before, sliding into the vacant space across from them. Vane pushes a new tankard of drink towards Siegfried and beams widely.

“Hi,” Vane laughs, his voice loud and boisterous amidst the hubbub of chatter. “Let me know if I’m intruding on any top-secret captain talk.”

Lancelot chuckles. He reaches across the table, slapping Vane lightly on the arm. “No, of course not, I wouldn’t have called you over otherwise. How’s patrol duty?”

“Eh, not much. The usual.” Vane angles himself, casting a knowing look in Siegfried’s direction. “Everyone’s curious about Aglovale. The other guys won’t stop bugging me to dig up all the dirt from you two. See?” Vane gestures to a spot just over Siegfried’s shoulder. “They’re listening in, I bet.”

Siegfried turns around and manages to startle a cluster of knights in the process of inching closer to their table. They scurry off immediately, Siegfried keeping his eyes on their hunched backs until he’s sure that they are no longer within earshot.

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Vane winces apologetically. “Should’ve told them to stay away.”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Siegfried. “Vane, was it?”

“Yeah!” The knight brightens at his name, cheer apparent in his tone. “I haven’t had the chance to talk to you much since I enlisted. Lance gushes about you all the time, though, so that kinda makes up for it.”

Siegfried lets curiosity and amusement pull at the corners of his lips when he catches sight of the mortification on Lancelot’s face. “Oh, does he?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. He really, really, _really_ admires you, captain.”

“Vane, that’s enough!” splutters Lancelot. “I didn’t call you over to gossip about this!”

“It’s not gossip if it’s public knowledge,” Vane retorts, clapping a rapidly deflating Lancelot on the shoulder. “I mean, I totally agree with you, Siegfried’s awesome. I’ve seen you guys spar and you’re both incredible.”

“ _Vane_.”

Lancelot is sighing now, helplessly glancing between the blond and Siegfried. Vane’s just this kind of person, the look in Lancelot’s eyes seems to say, the easy fondness in how he talks to the other man mixed in with the embarrassment that had flared up earlier. There is something to their rhythm that seems practiced but never mechanical, throwing remarks back and forth in tandem as though they’ve long-since memorized each other’s quirks.

“On the topic of sparring,” Siegfried comments. Lancelot and Vane pause, hanging onto his every word. “I’m seeing him tomorrow for a bout. Aglovale, I mean.”

“...Huh?”

“You’re - wait, is that allowed!?”

Lancelot hushes Vane sharply, grabbing his friend and motioning for Siegfried to huddle closer. Wondering what the fuss is, Siegfried raises an eyebrow but obeys anyway, the insistence on Lancelot’s face enough to get him to comply.

"I've gone through the Order's regulations before and there's no clause that forbids it,” Lancelot breathes quietly. “I’d love to watch, but I don’t think there should be an audience.”

“You mean I can’t tell the others?” Vane’s face falls. “Spare me, please. You know how bad I am at lying!”

“Then you’ll just have to try harder,” offers Siegfried, patting Vane on the back. “Make sure no one else interrupts. He requested it himself, and a knight has to answer to a king’s expectations. That’s just how it is.”

“Alright,” Vane sighs, clearly disappointed.

“I’ll tell you both about it when we’re done,” Siegfried says kindly.

Vane’s aptitude for instant recovery is amazing. “Nice!” He claps his hands together, shoving playfully at Lancelot with his shoulder. “I wanted to place bets, but since I can’t get that going, let’s just have it between the both of us.”

“Why is this even up for debate?” Lancelot shakes his head reproachfully. “My money’s on Siegfried, obviously.”

“But Aglovale’s like a bigger, meaner version of Percival except his colors are all different, right? He sounds tough!”

“Siegfried is tough too.”

“ _True_ -”

The thought of his own men staking their salaries on him is odd, as if they didn’t already trust him with their lives on a daily basis. It sounded like a lot of sacrifice in his name. Siegfried laughs goodnaturedly at the way the conversation proceeds to fly off the rails, like a carriage forced to change course so often that they’ve long forgotten where their original end destination was. Vane complains loudly about the kitchen running out of blueberry jam, Lancelot chides him for spending enough time with the maids to even know such fine details, and the both of them turn to Siegfried like little children pleading an adult to take their side whenever they come to an impasse.

Siegfried replies to the best of his capacity, though some questions - is he supposed to have an informed opinion on what should be this winter’s trending seasonal produce? - leave him a little lost. It’s been awhile since he’s had the chance to sit down and listen to the happenings in another person’s day, or even talk about his own.

It’s nice.

Vane’s right. Aglovale _is_ tough.

The king drops all friendly pretense, his longsword with its jagged blade drawn as he comes for Siegfried’s life. In that instant Aglovale is more a raging warrior than a monarch, something that Siegfried has never seen in his own country.

The sight of lush green grass swaying in the chilly morning breeze is set at odds with the harsh clash of metal against metal. Siegfried considers it lucky that he’d opted to trade blows in the wide fields of an external training grounds, set some distance away from the castle. The square of dirt that the Order uses for their regular rounds would have been sundered. Aglovale moves with a ferocity befitting his position - young enough to be consumed by passionate fervor, but also old enough to commandeer his emotions. A composed look somewhere between intensity and boredom sits on his face as he parries Siegfried’s strikes with practiced precision.

Eventually, he lands a hit so heavy that Siegfried has to brace against it with both hands on his greatsword, planting his feet firmly into the dirt.

Aglovale’s magic erupts in a burst of cold air around them.

Patches of the field are frozen instantly, the grass frosting over in swathes. Ice juts out from the earth behind him like a crystalline crown carved from the corpse of a glacier, barring the sky from sight.

Siegfried narrows his eyes. He brings his own sword back to his side, shifting his stance into something more guarded but nonetheless aggressive. Instead of moving out of the range of Aglovale’s frost, he stands his ground.

Unexpectedly, this is what gets Aglovale to pause at last in his unrelenting hail of attacks.

“You wouldn’t retreat?” Genuine curiosity creeps into his tone. “Why?”

“No reason.” Siegfried tightens his grip on his greatsword, the wicked curve of its blade glinting in the rays of the early sun.

Aglovale shrugs. The next instant, he lunges into Siegfried’s space in a single step, but Siegfried is there to intercept him. He sidesteps the initial blow, raising his weapon to stave off the next, before letting the ridges in his sword catch against Aglovale’s jagged blade. Siegfried holds him there, forcing Aglovale to remain caught in close quarters.

An icy chill rolls off Aglovale in waves.

“Not bad.” Even if the words sound condescending, Aglovale’s tone is respectful and sincere. His eyes glint fiercely as he surveys Siegfried from up close, as though he has not found himself tested like this for a long time. “You’d think it would have been wiser to put some distance between us, but you’ve chosen to remain in place.”

“I’m the acting captain of the Order,” Siegfried says, unflinching. “I couldn’t possibly run.”

“Your men aren’t here now.”

“I would never have become captain if I were complacent.”

“Is that so? You don’t strike me as the ambitious type.”

“I merely answer to my king,” replies Siegfried.

Wealth mattered little to him. Power, glory or fame were of limited consequence. Siegfried has known, since the beginning of his term in Feendrache, the singular purpose for which he draws his blade.

He almost loses his footing when the weight against his greatsword suddenly shifts. Siegfried jams it into the dirt, splitting the ground as he props himself up with its length. In front of him, Aglovale straightens, sheathing his own sword and holding up one hand in a friendly gesture of surrender. For whatever reason, he’s decided that their little exchange is over but still manages to make backing off look proud. Siegfried blinks, before mirroring Aglovale and shifting his greatsword back into its harness upon his back.

“I hope that was sufficiently entertaining.”

“Very much so, and I have you to thank for it.” Aglovale rolls his shoulders back, fixing his posture.

When Siegfried looks up at him again, Aglovale’s returned to being the aloof king of Wales, the overwhelming air of frigid might from earlier tamed back into smug confidence. Under any other circumstance, Siegfried might have mistaken Aglovale for the respected general of a budding kingdom’s military. It’s a wonder how he switches so quickly between all these facets. In comparison, Siegfried is always ever just himself, a quiet man with little fondness for words.

It is this lack of love for lengthy chatter that has him shrugging in response to Aglovale's extended gratitude. Siegfried gives a quick nod to indicate that he’s heard him, and flickers his gaze upwards to gauge the position of the sun in the brightening sky.

Fall is a comfortable season, with blustery winds and colder temperatures that keep him snug in his heavy armor. It also means that the day dawns earlier, and the knights of Feendrache wake faster.

“We should head back,” Siegfried mutters. “It’s already been a few hours.”

“If I keep you too long, will that dark-haired deputy of yours start worrying that I’ve murdered you in the woods?”

“Lancelot has quite the active imagination.”

“Oh, is that his name?”

“Yes.” Siegfried raises an eyebrow as Aglovale strides forwards, motioning for Siegfried to take the lead and guide them back to the castle. “Did Percival never mention him?”

“Percival doesn’t speak much about his life here,” Aglovale says. His brow furrows ever so slightly, a falter in his normally unchanging tone. It passes almost immediately, and the next instant he is already whistling for his horse.

Siegfried’s gaze shifts outwards, to where longer blades of grass tickle at an ocean-blue expanse of sky.

They’d left their rides to graze some distance away in the wide fields, far from the violence of their brief clash. Siegfried squints. He spots the beasts at last, Aglovale’s white stallion leading the way as it gallops towards them, his own borrowed mare from the stables trailing closely behind. They mount their horses without fuss, guiding themselves back to a potholed stretch of road that winds over low hills before leading to the castle gates.

The return journey is largely spent under a curtain of oddly comforting silence, punctuated only by infrequent comments. In the short span of time he’s known Aglovale, Siegfried has come to understand that the other man might not be chatty, but he is certainly not above asking as many questions as he needs to get answers either.

“Does he talk about Wales?”

Siegfried doesn’t need to ask who Aglovale is referring to. He knows. “Sometimes. Just glimpses of information, really.” He hums thoughtfully. “Percival’s a very private person.”

“I take it that you’ve never been to Wales yourself.”

“Not at all. Most of my responsibilities keep me here in Feendrache, or I am dispatched in times of war.” Siegfried allows himself a small smile at the admission - he rarely travels for his own leisure; all his time is already spent on his kingdom and fulfilling his knightly duties. “I should hope I’m never sent to Wales for such a purpose.”

To his pleasant surprise, Aglovale returns the expression with a faint chuckle. “May that day never fall upon us. You would be a rather difficult obstacle to remove.”

“Isn’t it good that Wales is a peaceful kingdom, then?”

“It’s flourishing slowly, but far from ideal.” A familiar haughtiness returns to Aglovale’s demeanor as he speaks, as though he stands in the midst of addressing a sea of loyal subjects instead of conversing privately with Siegfried. “I’ve come here for that purpose - to speak to King Josef, to ensure that my kingdom takes the correct steps forward.”

“He would be happy to learn of your noble intentions,” Siegfried says. Unsure of how to follow his own comment, he allows the sound of horse hooves clopping against packed dirt to fill the pause.

“It’s nothing quite so formal.” Aglovale’s voice is casual as he leans back in his saddle. “Does this road lead into town?”

“It goes around the outskirts, but we could turn right at the next fork and cut through the city, if that’s what you want.”

“Then I’d like that very much.”

Siegfried glances over to Aglovale. The king responds with a lift of his eyebrows, angling his head to gesture in the direction of the smattering of rooftops that have begun to jut out against the hills. The reemergence of civilization is an indication that they are fast approaching the capital.

“I did arrive here in the middle of night,” Aglovale says. “It’s not a very enticing view when you can hardly see more than five meters ahead.”

“You asked me about Wales, but is this also your first time visiting Feendrache?”

“It's my first time in the capital, yes.” Aglovale’s expression softens as his gaze wanders, as though dwelling on an old memory. “I’ve been to the border regions as a child, but there wasn’t much there at the time. It was mostly refugee camps, and those have become fine village communities of their own by now.”

“...The remnants of the war from two decades ago.”

“I believe we would have been around the same age when it happened.” A grimace passes briefly over Aglovale’s face. “Were you already a knight then?”

Aglovale’s words stir a faint recollection in Siegfried, a memory of unrest that had broken out around the neighboring kingdoms. He hadn’t been on the frontlines - he was still too young - but the townsfolk had whispered and worried when King Josef sent Feendrache’s knights to secure the perimeter of their lands. Siegfried recalls, in the twilight years when the war at last came to an end, how King Josef would spend months in meetings with chancellors and foreign officials debating over reparations for those that had been displaced.

“I should have been a better knight,” Siegfried decides eventually. “But there wasn’t anything I could do.”

“We were children at the time.” Aglovale’s eyes are steely as he looks to Siegfried. “There wasn’t anything I could have done either.”

Like Percival, who is still reluctant to speak of the past, Siegfried notes that Aglovale himself is guilty of the same. But it isn’t in his place to pry into the complexities of Wales’ royalty, and so Siegfried chooses silence instead.

By the time they make it to the royal capital, the sun dangled high above Feendrache has bathed the cobbled streets in its warm golden glow. In the thick of autumn with winter almost upon their doorstep, the sunlight is mellow and comforting against Siegfried’s face. Some trees in the forested woods have taken on fiery shades and others have shed their leaves altogether; the sky is strangely quiet in the mornings now without the cries of geese or swallows migrating in droves, fleeing to islands under the wings of more tropically-inclined primal beasts.

The marketplace in the city center moves away from baskets brimming with seasonal harvests. A buzzing excitement descends upon the capital as merchants begin to push out wares for the year-end festivities. This is where Aglovale pauses on their way back to the castle, dismounting and barging into the town square without so much as a warning. Siegfried is forced to practically leap off his own horse, hastily tying the reins to the poles of a nearby shelter, rushing after Aglovale before the other man is lost in the crowd.

By the time he locates Aglovale, paused in front of a baker’s table laden with fresh goods, Siegfried is torn between annoyance and horrified amusement at the scene before him.

Aglovale is so wrapped up in studying a loaf of bread that he is completely oblivious to the amount of attention he attracts just by standing there and existing. The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man with greying hair, looks ready to roll into an early grave as he gawks at Aglovale.

“Excuse me,” Siegfried mutters, pushing past the throng of onlookers. Freezing people in their tracks seems to be a gift that comes naturally to Aglovale, magical or not.

He pointedly ignores the sharp intake of collective breath when he joins Aglovale by the table. Siegfried knows that his own face is familiar amongst the people of Feendrache, though being exalted as a hero is something he will never grow used to. The common man, however, likely does not expect to bump into both the local legend and the visiting king of Wales together at the same time. Their casual appearance in public is already somewhat dangerous and also highly dramatic.

Aglovale, to his credit, is unperturbed.

“Wouldn’t you agree that it’s nice to be out here like this?” he comments, either woefully oblivious or intentionally ignorant. “There’s a lot that a king cannot see from his throne.”

“Such as what, bread?” Siegfried gestures at the rows of food before them. The golden-browns of fresh croissants, woody colors made from rye and oats, swirls of sugar-coated pastry - he clears his throat. “Time is creeping ahead without us, Aglovale. We have to return to the castle. King Josef is still expecting you.”

Thankfully, Aglovale complies. He readily cedes to Siegfried’s suggestion, trailing behind as he traces his steps. The crowd parts automatically for the both of them as they return to their horses.

“Even if your country and mine are separate kingdoms, some things are still incredibly similar.”

“Is the food in Wales not all that different?”

“There are variations, I would think.” Aglovale unties his stallion, affixing its harness. “Why don’t you come and see for yourself?”

“I’m afraid I must decline. I don’t get enough time off these days.”

“You’ll be in Wales soon anyway.” Aglovale’s smile takes on an almost infuriatingly self-assured quality as he looks over to Siegfried. “I’m here to speak to your king about structural reforms, but inviting him and his men to take part in Wales’ annual traditions is also another matter I’ve come to discuss.”

Did Wales always have a yearly event around Christmas? Siegfried ponders the question briefly, flipping through the pages of his memory for some kind of clue. He shifts his weight atop his horse, hoping he hadn’t forgotten something that was important.

“My late father did away with most of the festivities in his final years.” Aglovale is the one who offers him an answer, after a long bout of silence. “I would like to revive them, if such social events could possibly benefit Wales in the long-term. Isolation is no longer an attractive strategy.”

“So, you mean to say - a party.”

“For lack of a better term.”

If he could have grimaced, Siegfried would have. Fortunately, he remembers in time that Aglovale is still a king, and the one personally extending the invite. He wrestles his expression into something more neutral, even as he recalls being fussed over at least twenty times by every individual he knows whenever there is a similar event. If it wasn’t during a ball held on the king’s birthday, it would be another celebration of some sort. Percival is always exasperatingly persistent, insisting that Siegfried dress _properly_ and does not leave him alone until he is satisfied. Siegfried doesn’t understand what Percival means - he’s always dressed properly.

“I’m sure King Josef would be agreeable,” says Siegfried.

“I look forward to his attendance.”

Siegfried leads the rest of the journey back to the castle. Their steeds weave through the crowds, which part like the tides wherever they go. Aglovale spends most of the time in contemplative observation, scanning the peasantry and the knights on patrol that stop to call out to Siegfried. Siegfried waves back to his men, making sure to keep Aglovale in his periphery.

Aglovale never once looks his way. He’s busy watching the people of Feendrache with an intense interest, only looking up to ask casually about the local harvests, or how they manage welfare for their military, as if he is still grasping at knowledge about the world.

And perhaps he is, Siegfried supposes. Just as Percival had arrived seeking a term of service under the Order of the Black Dragon, Aglovale is learning about Feendrache. Both brothers, in their own ways, are shaping separate visions of the future.

Percival is calm, collected and always thinking several steps ahead. For all that the redhead speaks of his ideals, Siegfried knows that he is undeniably a realist, though also one that is talented and stubborn enough to defend his ambitions.

Aglovale is - Siegfried pauses, cutting his gaze to the other man. For a king, Aglovale does not seem to act too much like one. To be exact, he does not act like any ruler that Siegfried has known.

What kind of king does Aglovale want to become?

“No,” barks Percival, “get that away from him!”

In one swift movement, he rips the light blue vest out of Lancelot’s grasp, throwing the garment haphazardly over his shoulder. It lands atop a pile of discarded clothing spilled over a large wooden table, set in the center of the dressing room. These are all failures, apparently, though Siegfried doesn’t know why Percival would refer to them as such. Clothes are clothes. As long as they fit him, Siegfried doesn’t see the problem.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself?” Percival grumbles, “even if what we’re working with is arguably decent, it does _not_ mean we can slap anything on top and hope the entire arrangement works. Have you lot never learnt how to dress?”

“No,” Lancelot answers honestly, earning himself a scoff from the other man. “I’ve only attended the parties here, and every time I needed to be in my armor.”

“I’m going as the king’s guard,” says Siegfried. “Wouldn’t it make more sense for me not to dress down?”

“You’re attending as his personal security.” Percival’s glare pins him in place, the set way that he crosses both arms over his chest making it clear that he refuses to free Siegfried from his current predicament of finding a good outfit. “That also means you will be taking part in the _social_ half of the _social_ gathering.”

Lancelot sighs loudly, returning to dig through the few chests that they’d had maids bring in earlier. One of them is already completely empty, its contents rejected by Percival and subsequently discarded onto the table.

“You should’ve gone home instead, Percival,” Lancelot chides. He pulls out what looks to be a stiff tuxedo with white polka dots that makes Siegfried’s neck itch just looking at it. “I’m sure your brother must miss you.”

“How can I return to Wales when I’ve barely accomplished what I set out to do in the first place?” snaps Percival. His frown deepens the instant he lays eyes on the suit in Lancelot’s hands. “Why do I even let you pick? You’re terrible at this. Throw that away.”

“Someone’s in a bad mood today.”

“This is how I always am.”

“What’s wrong with that suit?”

Instantly, Siegfried feels two pairs of eyes scrutinizing him. He blinks, shrugging helplessly from where he’s been forced to sit, imprisoned in a large chair while his younger compatriots squabble over fashion choices.

“I can’t tell if you’re joking anymore,” Percival groans, massaging away the wrinkles that threaten to become permanent fixtures between his temples. “Maybe we should just let him go in full plate armor.”

“Oh? What’s this?” Lancelot’s grin is vicious. “At last, the great Percival admits defeat?”

“What - I never -” Percival splutters, but any caustic retort he would have thrown at Lancelot is thankfully interrupted by a sudden series of sharp knocks against the doors.

“You two continue,” Siegfried says, flapping a hand at them, “I’ll get it.”

When he pulls open the doors, Vane is there with another smaller chest in both hands. The blond knight offers Siegfried an amused laugh that instantly dissipates the tension in the atmosphere, and Siegfried smiles back in greeting.

“I thought you might need a little help,” Vane says, hoisting up the chest in his arms. “You guys have been going at this for hours. The king kind of gave up and told me to take this here. It’s for you, Siegfried.”

Siegfried nods cautiously, taking the chest from the other knight. It’s a lot lighter than it looks. From the make of the chest and the carvings in its wooden surface, he assumes that there’s probably another fresh batch of clothes inside.

“Thank you,” he says, wondering when all this would end. If only they’d let him attend with his armor and greatsword.

“Oh! Vane!” Lancelot is suddenly by Siegfried’s side with startling speed. “Is it already time for dinner?”

“That’s exactly why I’m here, to tell you three to hurry up,” Vane wails. “There’s no way I can tell the kitchens to set aside enough for you! You know how much everyone else eats. It’s practically war.”

Lancelot sighs, patting Vane reassuringly. “We’ll try our best, okay?” he says kindly. “We just need _someone_ to approve one set of clothes.”

“What did you say?” comes Percival’s irate voice.

“Nothing!” Lancelot calls, turning to holler over his shoulder.

Siegfried shakes his head just as Vane chokes out a low laugh. Despite everything, Lancelot and Percival’s banter has a kind of reassuring energy and rapport that draws out comforting warmth. They form the two pillars that hold up the Order together, and watching them whenever they are all gathered in the same place - though rare, now that each of them holds rank - is perhaps one of Siegfried’s favorite pastimes.

“Come quick when you’re all done,” says Vane, jerking a thumb down the hallway to his left. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you later!”

“Of course.”

“Save seats for us!” Lancelot bids his childhood friend farewell, watching him take off again down the corridors. He next turns to Siegfried, eyes wandering to the chest in his hands. “What’s that, anyway?”

“We’ll have to open it up first.”

“Alright. I’ll move it to the table.”

Siegfried shifts back into the fitting room, edging the doors closed with one foot. As he approaches the eye of the storm - the pile of clothing still stacked like a mountain of corpses - Percival shoots him an inquiring glance.

“Who was that?”

“Vane just came to drop this off, it’s from the king.” Siegfried places the chest down, going straight for the decorative lock that has its lid fixed in place.

Percival swaps his frown for an expression of vague confusion. Siegfried shrugs nonchalantly; maybe the other knight hasn’t had the opportunity to meet Vane in person yet. Even though they were both friends with Lancelot, their duties meant that they were always travelling to different parts of the country. It wasn’t all that unusual.

More importantly, Siegfried’s attention is stolen immediately once he gets the chest open.

Tucked inside the wooden box is a set of clothing - a simple white shirt folded together with a dark-colored vest and maroon tie, resting upon an ivory blazer trimmed with gold. Siegfried hasn’t a clue where the king would have procured such a thing. The sheer finery of these threads is alarming - how much did these cost, and how could they be expected to hold up in a fight? What if they tore?

“Not too shabby.” Percival is already going through the chest, inspecting each piece with a care that Siegfried is sure he himself lacks. “This will make for a fine showing in Wales,” he muses, almost as if he is actually concerned about how Siegfried, about how Feendrache appears in the eyes of his brother.

“...Then why didn’t you accept Aglovale’s invitation?” Siegfried asks, before he can think to filter his question.

All at once, silence descends upon the room. Percival stiffens at the mention of his brother’s name. He remains quiet, so Siegfried continues to talk to fill up the pause.

“King Josef mentioned that Aglovale wanted to see you, too.”

“That can wait.” Percival’s tone is stilted when he next speaks, his voice low. “I do respect him - Aglovale is still my older brother, after all. But I’ve already made up my mind about this.”

Percival looks up, surveying the room. He sweeps his stern gaze across the expanse, from Lancelot, leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, to Siegfried, who stands listening. It isn’t often that Percival speaks about his homeland, and Siegfried thinks it right to let him have all the time he needs to choose his words.

“I’ve not yet found the answers to my questions.”

Siegfried understands the conviction in Percival’s guarded stance. The younger man’s pride cannot forgive himself if he returns at the drop of a hat, not until he’s fulfilled his lofty goals.

But Percival’s questions are ones that Siegfried has never found himself concerned with - he is, and will always be, someone else’s knight. He leads, but is not a ruler, unlike Aglovale. Unlike Percival.

What does it take to build an ideal kingdom? What does it take to become a good king?

In his heart, Siegfried knows that he cannot tell Percival this - that he does not care. He’s only ever served one man, he’s only ever belonged to one kingdom; his dreams of a perfect country are second-hand visages borrowed from someone else.

The party in Wales is exactly how Siegfried imagined it to be. It is a large, grand-scale affair with glittering lights and mingling nobility and far too many tall glasses for his liking. The outfit he wears, the one set approved by Percival, feels like an uncomfortable second skin.

Everything in the room is too brittle.

Siegfried finds himself a quiet corner not quite out on the balcony but close enough, hanging by a set of heavy maroon curtains drawn back by golden cord. There are several clusters of people out here, enjoying the cooling night breeze and the sights of Wales at night.

Wales, unlike Feendrache, is much more subdued at this time of day. Soft glowing lights from lamps and homes are the only indication of life down in the spread of villages around the royal residency. The capital itself is framed by low hills, carpeted on all sides by fields with snaking rivers running over the land.

Wales would have been incredibly picturesque, Siegfried thinks, if not for the heavy military presence in the country.

It wasn’t hard to notice. If anything, Aglovale had left everything out in the open.

To anyone else with less experience or training, it might have seemed normal, almost, to have guards and knights mingling with the people. But Siegfried knows, just by glancing out the window as the carriage takes him and King Josef through the city center, that Aglovale has been building up the army here. The patrol groups make frequent rounds, the guards that greet them at the castle gates are well-trained and orderly.

“Is it wise to leave your king’s side like this?”

Speak of the devil. Siegfried glances off to his left, arms folded across his chest, to see Aglovale peering at him with a wan smile on his face. The man’s blond hair is golden under the backlighting, the contours of his pretty features deepened by the night’s shadows.

“I informed him that I would be here,” he says, turning his gaze back to the dark outlines of hills against the evening sky. “Are you sure it’s wise to choose to speak to me over any of these other people? I’m no noble.”

“That is because I find you intriguing, Siegfried.” Aglovale chuckles, dry and without humor. “And you are a respected captain, of course,” he tacks on like an afterthought. “I had hoped to speak to King Josef about you. Perhaps I should leave to find him now.”

“About me?” Siegfried looks to Aglovale now, surprised.

“I wanted to borrow you for a few days.” Aglovale waves a careless hand in the air, as though doing away with all of Siegfried’s suspicions. “Your skill and reputation precedes you. I’d like for you to observe and give some pointers to the royal guard.”

“Don’t you have your own men to do that?”

“Unlike yourself, the army of Wales is sorely lacking in experience.” Dissatisfaction seeps into his severe tone, and Siegfried watches as Aglovale’s brows furrow slightly. “Enthusiasm can only compensate for so much. When the structure of the military itself is evolving, you need men that can keep up.”

“I...if the king agrees, then I don’t have much choice, do I?” Siegfried laughs.

Aglovale fixes him with a strange look. “Your loyalty is the most fearsome thing about you, Dragonslayer.”

Before Siegfried can ask Aglovale what he means - was it not a given, for a knight to be wholly dedicated to the individual that stands above himself? - Aglovale is gone in a whirl of blue and silver silk, melting away back into the milling crowd in the great hall, the sound of his footfalls sharp against the marble floor.

When King Josef agrees to lend Siegfried to Wales for three days, Siegfried does not protest it.

He thinks of what Lancelot and Percival would say, of the looks on their faces when the news travels back to Feendrache. Siegfried imagines the stunned way that Lancelot’s icy blue eyes would widen, and the deepening frown on Percival’s face as he would almost certainly demand to know the reasoning behind his brother’s request, and why Siegfried had complied. Percival is strict on everyone else, but he is strictest on himself. Just because the two kingdoms were currently in a state of relative harmony, did not mean that the Order could carelessly lend its finest away, even if it was to his own family.

“He’ll have to learn that sometimes, rulers make unreasonable demands for the sake of the future,” laughs Aglovale. He turns up his face to look at Siegfried, a picture of peerlessness. From where he sits across the dining table, he has one elbow rested on the hand rest of his seat, cheek balanced against his curled knuckles. “We can’t all be perfect.”

“I still consider this an enormous favor that I’ve borrowed from Feendrache. Wales will owe you a debt.”

“That’s rather much, it’s only for three days.” Siegfried rests further down the table, a distance from Aglovale. He’s been allowed to discard formal attire for his armor, though the black metal plate is not with him for the meal.

His greatsword has returned to his side, at least. The cold crimson of the blade sticks out amidst the castle’s opulence, but Aglovale does not seem to mind.

“No matter. It’s true that I must take responsibility for calling you away from the Order.” Aglovale’s smile bears an uncanny resemblance now to sharp knives, his tone firm. “I’d also like to spar with you again, Siegfried. Your skill is unparalleled.”

“You praise me too much. You’re very strong yourself,” mutters Siegfried, meeting Aglovale’s gaze. He still remembers the sight of jagged ice erupting from the ground in cresting waves, the edges glimmering in the sun.

“Humor me. It would be more rewarding than stagnation.”

“Don’t you have anyone else here to practice your skill against?”

“No one like your deputy commanders.” Aglovale’s expression melts away into something softer, almost fond. “Percival and Lancelot, I’m sure they manage to keep you busy.”

“They’re both very capable.”

“As both older brother and king, I’m glad to hear that.”

“With training and hard work, I’m sure your own men could one day compare to their skill.”

At Siegfried’s words, Aglovale barks out a short laugh, mocking amusement in his voice. “That sounds like nothing more than a pipe dream, but I suppose it’s my job to see it through.”

Aglovale pauses, before turning to look out over the fields surrounding the castle, visible through the long windows of the dining hall. Though the weather is transitioning into the colder months of the year, the fields are colored a variegation of light and dark greens, the sky still a bright baby blue. The expression on his face shifts again into one of contemplation, and Siegfried waits.

He’s seen that look on Percival before. Aglovale wears something similar now, as he reminiscences about the distant yet familiar past.

“There _is_ one person I used to clash with,” sighs Aglovale. “But he’s never around anymore.”

“You could try recalling him,” Siegfried suggests, wondering if Aglovale was referring to Percival. “Send him a letter, if he’s living outside of Wales now.”

“If only anyone knew where he’d gone.” Aglovale returns his eyes to the table with a small shrug of his shoulders. “He never left an address.”

Oh, Siegfried thinks, so it’s not Percival.

“Travelling the skies?”

“You know those adventuring types. Here one moment then gone before the week is past.”

Siegfried hums in thought. He’s had to travel on several assignments before, but never something quite as magnificent as navigating through the sea of clouds. He cannot imagine what it must feel like, for his feet to pass the edge of the island that houses Feendrache, to leave onboard a floating ship, the whistling wind in his hair.

“Sounds like he hasn’t been back in awhile,” he says.

The laugh that leaves Aglovale is bitter despite the fine weather. “Not in years.”

“I see.” Perhaps he would be of help to Aglovale then, in some way. Siegfried edges out a small smile. “I’ve not met this person, but I hope I’m up to par.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Aglovale straightens. The tension in his posture eases away instantly as he leans back in his seat, surveying Siegfried with renewed intensity in his gaze. “You’re both very different people.”

Siegfried cannot tell if Aglovale is testing him when they spar, or if the king is merely using him as a substitute for the individual that he speaks of with such uncharacteristic fondness.

As it turns out, the answer is both yes and no.

On his third and last day in Wales, Aglovale tells him tales from his past. He mentions old injuries he’d suffered, talks about wizened trees in nearby forests that bore the marks of rough training sessions, reminisces about the childhood squabbles that he would often have with this other person. Siegfried finds himself wondering what sort of man had been able to brush shoulders with Aglovale in such a casual manner, butting heads with the young king. He himself still treads carefully in these waters, a guest in a foreign land, and Aglovale is at times as cold and unpredictable as his own magic.

"Did I consider him my equal?" Aglovale ponders the thought, when Siegfried voices his questions. "In a way, perhaps. Lamorak enjoyed challenging me all the time."

From his spot beneath overhanging branches, sheltered under the shade of leaves, Siegfried looks up from polishing his blade. Aglovale does not spend too long sparring, just enough to keep himself sharp each day before he eventually heads back to the royal castle. Siegfried is usually left with the rest of the day to himself, free to mingle with the local guard or head into town. Most times, he heads out to the city streets, wandering through the massive network of paved roads that spread out over the land like a massive spiderweb.

Today, Aglovale seems to be in a particularly forgiving mood. He hangs back to speak to Siegfried, relaxed and unhurried.

"Lamorak?" The sound of the name is familiar to Siegfried, though he doesn't think he's ever met anyone by that address.

Across from Siegfried, Aglovale stands with his arms loose by his side. He's clad in the same blue-and-silver armor that he'd worn the first night they'd met, his blond hair bathed in the light of the morning sun. To anyone else, he might have appeared radiant. Siegfried, however, is less than preoccupied.

"He's my younger brother," explains Aglovale. "The other one," he adds, as if picking up on Siegfried's immediate confusion. "Percival may have mentioned him."

"Oh. Yes, he has."

Realization clicks at last in Siegfried's mind. It's no surprise that he's heard of Lamorak before. Indeed, Percival had spoken of him. It had been during the time of his late father's passing, when Percival took a week's absence away from the Order to attend to matters back in Wales.

Siegfried wonders to himself if Lamorak, who'd left to travel, had also been there for the funeral.

“Maybe he wanted to see the skies,” Siegfried shrugs. “It’s not that unusual.”

“Is that so.” Aglovale sighs, pinching his brows together in a way that makes him look like Percival. "He might have been an utter pain, but sometimes I wish he’d stayed on in Wales to assist me."

“If Wales means as much to him as it does to you, he’ll return someday.”

“I hope so,” mutters Aglovale. 

"He must be strong in his own way," Siegfried comments. "I'd assumed 'equal' meant that you traded blows with him. Was I wrong?"

"Quite so. He mostly devoted his time to healing spells and wards."

"So the two of you clashed in opinion."

"Always. We could fight for weeks over what each of us thought was right." Aglovale shrugs, expression twisting into one of mocking amusement. "By a different measure, you are also someone I could almost consider my equal, but in battle. I've not met anyone quite as unshakeable as yourself, Dragonslayer."

"That's very high praise," Siegfried mutters. It wouldn't be wise to protest what he knows to be true, to some extent - that he _is_ strong. He wouldn't be the Captain of the Order otherwise. It is the reason why he commands the amount of respect that he does back in Feendrache, with capable deputies like Lancelot and Percival always keeping him on his toes.

Percival, who searches for the stepping stones to a better, brighter future. Lancelot, who returns to challenge him over and over again, digging his heels into the ground even if Siegfried forces him to his knees.

There is no one quite like that here in Wales, though there once might have been. 

At the very least, it is clear that Aglovale has dedicated his life to his country regardless of who he allows by his side. He rules from a throne perched high above, out of the grasp of those around him, but Siegfried sees his dedication in the severe way he composes himself. There is a reason why Aglovale rarely spends time with others - he is always locked away in meetings, discussing new reforms and trade partnerships, or here with Siegfried making sure that his own might does not wane. This is Aglovale’s nature as king.

Even such a man is not above sentimentalities, Siegfried muses, from the way he speaks of the past with such heavy nostalgia in his voice.

He speaks as though he’s left everything behind.

“Shouldn’t you be indoors by this time?” Siegfried asks eventually, gesturing to the sky. Above them both, the sun hangs bright, shrouded slightly by clouds. “For your important appointments, or other things.”

“I have time in my schedule today.” Aglovale shifts, one hand going to the sheathed longsword by his side. He eyes Siegfried pointedly. “It’s your final day here. I’d like one round without any holding back.”

Siegfried pauses where he sits. His armor rests heavy on his shoulders, and he looks to Aglovale for confirmation of what he’d just heard.

“That could be dangerous for both of us,” he says evenly.

“Though you certainly don’t consider it any real threat to yourself.”

“You don’t have to put it like that,” says Siegfried, even as he questions himself and acknowledges immediately that Aglovale is right. Ever since his encounter with Fafnir, Siegfried hasn’t once crossed swords with anyone that he’d considered capable of taking his life.

Aglovale, apparently, seems intent on becoming the first of his kind.

Siegfried sighs, feeling Aglovale’s stare bear into him. Fine, if it would satisfy this greedy king, he would put him in his place.

He gets to his feet slowly, pushing himself upright with his greatsword.

The clearing they stand in has already been scarred by their previous clashes. The ground is cracked where Siegfried had slammed his blade into the dirt, wet where Aglovale’s frost had melted into it, forming muddy patches. There is enough space for the both of them to move around without fear of destroying too many of the trees that stockade this place like a battalion, this childhood training grounds kept isolated and well-maintained. Siegfried supposes it wouldn’t matter much - if the both of them are to meet each other head-on, no amount of preparation would save a part of the woods from destruction.

Just as he’s been careful not to hurt Aglovale, Siegfried is well aware that Aglovale himself has never once tried seriously to tear him apart.

Siegfried lowers his stance. The hilt of his blade is heavy, the worn leather fitting neatly into his grip. He eyes Aglovale, who has his own sword drawn, the air around him already thick with the cloying aura of his frozen magic. Before Aglovale can open his mouth to speak, Siegfried darts forward.

He expects nothing less than for his sword to meet with unyielding ice, sending shards splintering away with a grating noise as he brings his blade down. Siegfried cleaves the icy ridge that Aglovale throws up into half. Dirt and flecks of frost are sent flying on the impact, obscuring his vision.

When Aglovale strikes, Siegfried is ready for him, already working out his blind spots and catching Aglovale’s jagged blade in his, in a mirror of their first bout.

This time, Aglovale does not back away. Confidence still etched into his face, he only increases the pressure applied against Siegfried’s greatsword. Siegfried’s muscles tense; he’s about to throw Aglovale off, to push him back a few feet to advance, when the temperature around them plunges all at once.

The cold that hits the entire right side of his body is unlike anything that Siegfried has ever experienced before. It is nothing like the gradual, seeping chill that steals away heat from homes with their doors left open on a snowy winter’s day - Aglovale’s ice is fierce and unforgiving, frosting over half of Siegfried’s armor as icicles form, both on the dark metal surface and between the joints, stabbing into his skin deep enough to draw blood.

Siegfried keeps the soles of his feet firmly on the ground. Ignoring the pain of the spreading ice, he forces his arms to move, snapping several icicles neatly in half. Though his movement is slowed slightly from the cold, his resistance surprises Aglovale enough for Siegfried to readjust his grip on his greatsword, pushing downwards on an overhead swing that has Aglovale darting back to avoid the blow. With some distance between them now, Siegfried rolls his right shoulder experimentally; while still sore, he isn’t being frozen alive anymore, which is a marked improvement.

Aglovale doesn’t give him much time to catch his breath.

Siegfried dodges out of the way next as another burst of ice is sent right at him. In a simple struggle of power, Aglovale must have long realized that Siegfried easily outclassed him. Siegfried knows that Aglovale intends to use the leftover effects from his earlier attack to his advantage, while his own movements are still sluggish from the fluctuating temperatures.

In that case, there is still no change to Siegfried’s strategy. He scans the field, waiting for Aglovale’s next move. It’s easy enough to see that the other man excels at magic. Siegfried cannot take him at range, but in a war of attrition, he has the upper hand as long as he brings Aglovale closer.

He stands, and waits.

When the dust clears, it becomes noticeable that the ground beneath Siegfried's feet has cracked where his sword slammed into it. Ice still sticks out at irregular angles across the field. Aglovale stands by one such icy ridge, the shards gleaming in the sun as he regards Siegfried with careful eyes.

Siegfried readjusts his grip on his weapon. Aglovale likely understands that his advantage over Siegfried is slipping away with each passing second, as his ice melts and he gets used to the cold. But Aglovale is also skilled enough to not make any rash movements, refraining from charging in.

After a beat, Siegfried decides to risk a step forward.

Aglovale’s feint and the swing of his sword comes faster than Siegfried can properly react, the man rushing in at that exact instant. Just as Aglovale’s weapon is about to connect with his shoulder blade, Siegfried gauges the situation with practiced calm - in a life or death scenario, what would he do?

Without hesitation, he drops one hand from his greatsword.

Siegfried keeps the hilt gripped in his right, letting the blade dig into into the ground. His left arm comes up instinctively, catching Aglovale’s longsword in a crushing grip, the horrible screech of metal against metal resounding throughout the clearing. Siegfried barely registers the look of bewilderment on Aglovale’s face before a flash of pain erupts where the blade impacts, sending an fiery burst of hurt coursing through his entire body as Aglovale’s magic pours out from his sword, encasing Siegfried’s left entirely in ice. Siegfried’s knees nearly buckle from under himself. He might have broken a few fingers, he doesn’t know; gritting his teeth against the dark, angry emotion that growls to life in his gut, Siegfried shifts his weight and puts all his strength in his right, swinging his greatsword up and across into Aglovale’s side.

His muscles burn from the exertion, even as he’s rewarded with the familiar sensation of his blade smashing against armor. Aglovale lets out a frustrated sound before pulling back, the force of Siegfried’s blow slamming him into the ground.

“Siegfried!” Aglovale’s voice is stern, imperious even as he kneels, a hand around the hilt of his sword. "That’s enough.”

Siegfried jolts to a halt. His breath comes in ragged pants that mist into vapor. He looks down; he’d tried to push forward, but his legs have been frozen into place by Aglovale’s ice. His entire left arm hangs limp by his side, and his right - it’s fine, he supposes, at least he could still feel it.

He blinks, and drops his greatsword. It takes him a moment to register what Aglovale looks like - the other man has shifted to sit cross-legged on the ground, a posture that comes across as unexpectedly crass, until Siegfried notices how Aglovale is carefully keeping the pressure off his chest by leaning backwards on both his palms.

“Are you -” Siegfried starts, then coughs as the frost in his lungs bites into the air he breathes, “are you okay?”

“I’m amazed you’re still standing,” appraises Aglovale. He sighs, blond hair spilling over his shoulders, messy from the fight. His longsword is left lying on the ground beside him. “After everything - I wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

“You said to come at you seriously, and so I did.”

“Catching a blade with your bare hands, though?”

“If I hadn’t done that, you would have hit me with something worse.” Siegfried inspects his left arm, the ice on the armor now beginning to defrost. While it wasn’t broken or dislocated, it was still difficult to move. At least he’d managed to stopper the damage at a single limb. His fingers are also fine, even if his wrist seems badly sprained.

In that moment, Aglovale laughs. It’s a loud, throaty sound that fills the morning air.

Siegfried snaps his gaze up from his hands to watch as Aglovale laughs genuinely for the first time in his presence. There is no pretense in that sound, no carefully-calculated amusement as Aglovale meets his eyes and shrugs almost helplessly from his position on the ground.

“You’re doing a lot better than I am, then,” sighs Aglovale. “It was wise of me not to engage you too closely. One blow from that weapon of yours would have been fatal, and you were only using it single-handed.”

“...Wait.” Realization washes over Siegfried in a sudden wave, alarm settling in the pit of his stomach.

He makes it to Aglovale’s side, the sun having worn away most of the ice freezing his armor to the earth. He kneels by him, eyes scanning over the spot in Aglovale’s side where he’d swung into the other man’s armor. Siegfried raises his eyes to see Aglovale watching him expectantly, as though waiting for a verbalization of the diagnosis that they both already knew.

“How many?” Siegfried asks quietly.

Aglovale makes to shrug, before wincing at the movement. “At least one. Maybe two. You hit very hard, Siegfried.”

“My apologies,” Siegfried mutters. He extends his right hand to Aglovale. “Can you walk?”

“Of course.”

Siegfried straightens, pulling Aglovale to his feet. He offers the other man a shoulder, careful to avoid putting more pressure on him. They have to get Aglovale to one of the healers in the castle, first, before he can think about how to explain that he’d broken the king’s ribs by accident.

“Rest easy, it’s not all that bad,” says Aglovale, who is apparently psychic and capable of listening in to Siegfried’s internal struggle. An amused smile settles on his lips as Siegfried turns to face him, chagrined.

“Even if you forgive me, I’m afraid King Josef and Percival might not.”

“Oh, well, then you’re on your own there. Internal strife in Feendrache isn’t my responsibility.”

“I’ll be prepared for it when I return.”

Aglovale huffs out another laugh, resting his weight against Siegfried as they begin their walk back to the castle. Even if he doesn’t make a show of it, Siegfried can tell that Aglovale is feeling the strain of keeping up conversation with several broken ribs, his complexion paler than usual.

“You’d best get yourself checked out too,” says Aglovale. “Frostbite or any damage to your joints could be fatal for a knight.”

“Thank you for your concern, but as the king of Wales, you should look after yourself first.”

“Ah, are you telling me off?”

“I wouldn’t go so far, but I'm sure a kingdom cannot exist without its king.”

“That’s true. You wouldn’t exist without yours.” The look that Aglovale regards him with is curious, like he’s trying to take apart Siegfried’s thoughts with his eyes alone, as they trudge side by side down a dirt road under the cover of trees.

“I’m just one man.”

“It’s men like you that make up the nation.”

“I'm not the best representative. There are all kinds of folk in Feendrache.”

“Very fair,” Aglovale agrees. His footsteps are slow beside Siegfried, but he maintains a firm grip on his shoulder. “Though managing a single person is far harder than an entire kingdom, sometimes.”

Siegfried raises an eyebrow at Aglovale’s words. “Speaking from experience?”

“I’m the eldest of three siblings,” Aglovale replies, expression grim. “What do you think?”

After he deposits Aglovale into the hands of panicked guards and frantic healers, Siegfried is shunted off into his own room and put under unofficial house arrest. A letter is sent to Feendrache in haste, informing King Josef that the captain of the Order has unfinished business in Wales, and Siegfried finds himself thankful that Aglovale did not mention the specifics of _why_ he’d had to stay.

Now he owes the other man a debt, and Siegfried is impatient to not hold any favors with people of Aglovale’s standing. It just didn’t seem right.

The next day, he is allowed to visit Aglovale once the healers are done inspecting his wrist. Siegfried does so, shedding his usual armor for a simpler set of clothing - a loose tunic shirt and pants.

Aglovale turns out to be fully capable of working from bed. When Siegfried pushes open the doors to the king’s private chambers, he finds the other man wedged between stacks of ledgers and scrolls of parchment still bound together by leather cord. Aglovale barely seems to take notice of Siegfried’s entry, waving a dismissive hand at him in greeting as he reads through the papers in his hands, by the low illumination of lamplight. Aglovale mutters a quick ‘good evening’, gesturing to the desk positioned just by a set of large windows, indicating for Siegfried to pull up a chair and sit down.

“You’re recovering fast,” Siegfried comments. He wonders if he should remain standing, but settles eventually on borrowing Aglovale’s cushioned desk chair.

“Not as fast as I would like.” Aglovale puts down the papers at last, letting them fall into his lap. He frowns, picking them up again and placing them off to the side, where they perch precariously atop a stack of books. “Things are a little messy here, I’m afraid.”

Siegfried grimaces. “If there’s anything I could help with,” he begins, but is cut off by Aglovale.

“I brought this upon myself,” he says, as though stating a fact. “I was the one who demanded you cede to my request, you merely answered it. You were right. A king has to be responsible, and I owe it to Wales to keep myself safe.”

“Make that another annotation on your nation-building notes, then.”

“I’m working on it.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“I’d just like to know one thing.” Aglovale looks to him then, fingers still interlaced in his lap. “Your loyalty to Feendrache - exactly what inspires it? How do you know that it will be the place you always return to?”

Siegfried gives the question a moment of thought, before shrugging. He isn’t one for big words or deep philosophies.

The answer for him is simple.

“It’s where I was born,” Siegfried says, though he knows that might not be the answer that Aglovale desires. “Feendrache is my home.”

Siegfried expects a derisive laugh, or a curt dismissal of his words. To his surprise, the expression on Aglovale’s face clouds over instead into unreadable emotion. A muted silence descends between them, this time an odd and nervous lull in words that has Siegfried shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“I see,” Aglovale says at last. “That does make sense.”

Siegfried frowns. He can hardly consider himself Aglovale’s friend - acquaintance, maybe, and even that’s pushing it - but the sombre tone is so much unlike the king’s usual impetuousness that Siegfried cannot help but to be concerned.

He takes a chance, getting off the chair and pushing aside a small pile of scrolls to sit by Aglovale’s side.

“Is this about Percival?” he asks, because with Aglovale, most of their conversations are tributaries that eventually meet at the same river mouth that opens into the ocean. Then, as another thought strikes him, he adds, “or is this about Lamorak?”

“Maybe,” Aglovale says, angling his face upwards as his eyes flicker to Siegfried. There is something questioning, watchful in his gaze. “It could be about the both of them.”

Siegfried wonders if this is the reason behind Aglovale’s drive to better Wales. All this talk about the ideal kingship, for the sake of something so personal. The country can hardly be considered shabby - the people here live blessed lives far away from war, and Aglovale is a respected ruler. But he’s never satisfied; his ambitions always lie just over the unending horizon, his dreams in the form of two individuals who’d left and found other homes outside the borders of his kingdom.

“At least Percival doesn’t hate this place,” says Siegfried. The young knight’s heart still belongs in part to Wales, even if he cannot vouch for the other individual that occupies Aglovale’s thoughts. “And I hope Lamorak finds his way back. He could be lost.”

“What an interesting thought.” The wan smile on Aglovale’s face takes on that same fond, exasperated quality that Siegfried has seen over the last three days in little glimpses, whenever he speaks of his brother who’d left to roam. “I have my men on the lookout for him, if he ever chooses to come back.”

“If he did, you wouldn’t be sitting here in bed.” Siegfried edges forward, pushing away a few more books that have slid from their neat stacks. “You mentioned he was studying healing magic.”

“If he had to use it on me, I’d never hear the end of his teasing,” Aglovale grumbles. “He meant it for himself most of the time. He was always the troublemaker between the both of us.”

“Sounds like he was a lot of work to be around.”

“I didn’t mind, even if I hated how he acted at times. We never talked through our differences as much as I would have liked.” Aglovale reaches forward, gathering the papers beside him and shifting them to the bedside drawer. “I’d like to think that we could try now, if we meet again.”

“I hope he wasn’t the kind of person that would break your bones when you both fought.”

“Never him, that was Percival,” Aglovale admits with an offhanded little shrug. He huffs out an exasperated laugh. “All this reminiscing has made me soft. It's been awhile since I was able to talk to anyone else like this."

"Not even your own subjects?"

"They think of me as their king, and that divide is difficult for me to bridge on my own."

"Well," Siegfried pauses, puzzlement coming over him. "Aren't we talking now?"

"Did you honestly think that anyone else would dare speak to me in such a manner?" Aglovale fixes Siegfried with a pointed look. "This is a privilege."

“That’s a good thing, I’d like to think.”

“It is.”

There is a pause as Aglovale seems to mull over something, while the both of them return to cleaning up the mess of documents on the bed. Siegfried shifts the scrolls to the floor, while Aglovale reaches across the best he can with his injuries, attempting to balance last year's farming taxes atop some kind of family register on the dresser.

“Thank you for the past three days,” mutters Aglovale as he works, so quietly that Siegfried almost misses it. "It was interesting, fighting you."

"Likewise." Siegfried settles back down, his weight sinking into the mattress as he sits beside Aglovale. "May we never cross paths in war. You called me a difficult obstacle, but you're one too."

"Ah," says Aglovale, glancing his way as a faint smile flits across his lips. "That's an awfully frank assessment."

Even if they may not quite be friends, Siegfried supposes that they could be this - him, an unexpected arrival on Aglovale's horizon, a maybe-equal. He’s not part of the royal family and never will be - Siegfried does not know, nor cares to know about the intricacies of Aglovale's past - but he understands now that the king of Wales is simply curious about the possibility of another person standing level with him.

It's the least he can do to allow it, if Aglovale wishes to see him as such.

"I would be glad to cross blades again with you," says Siegfried. “But I cannot stay in Wales for long.”

"I understand.”

Aglovale’s next words come as a genuine surprise, and Siegfried snaps his gaze upwards to the other man.

“You could still stay, for today.” The look on Aglovale’s face is unreadable, a carefully crafted mask of neutrality. He does not make to reach out to Siegfried, instead pursing his lips, sitting back with a challenge in his deep red eyes. “I’ve become curious about your existence.”

“...Which one of us is the frank one now?” Siegfried raises an eyebrow. After a moment’s consideration, he moves closer, leaning quietly into Aglovale’s space. There, he finds affirmation when the other man does not back away.

“Do you really want this?” he asks, when he is close enough to brush noses with Aglovale. “I owe you a personal debt for what I’ve caused, but you’re not fully recovered even if the healers have worked their magic.”

“Who do you think I am?” Aglovale murmurs, even as he reaches out to Siegfried and pulls their faces ever closer. The smirk that fits itself across Aglovale’s lips is self-assured even with barely any distance between them, a familiar look that is no longer stranger to Siegfried.

Siegfried sighs. He is in no particular position to choose. If Aglovale must have his way again, so be it, hopefully with less accidents this time around.

“You’re Aglovale, King of Wales,” Siegfried mutters in reply, before dipping his head down to press their lips together.

Aglovale is unexpectedly pliant beneath him.

Where Siegfried expects him to be imperious or haughty, Aglovale accommodates him with a warmth that leaves Siegfried confused as to what kind of replacement he’s supposed to be, if Aglovale does not make any further request of him. When all Aglovale asks is for Siegfried to do as he wishes, he complies and makes Aglovale lie back against the sheets, propped up just slightly by the pillows behind him so he doesn’t hurt his ribs again. It would be terrible if he had to explain to the healers tomorrow why their king’s bones were _still_ broken.

Aglovale laughs out loud at Siegfried’s consideration. Siegfried sighs, slightly annoyed, before shifting away the last of the documents that litter the sheets.

In the flickering glow of the lamps, burning away into the night, Aglovale’s long hair is soft with muted luminescence. If anything, Siegfried rather enjoys how it looks. He runs a few locks between his fingers, earning a low hum from Aglovale, sounding quite pleased with Siegfried’s fascination.

“I don’t desire anything overly passionate,” Aglovale says, carding his own hands through Siegfried’s hair, working away at the knots in the wavy strands. “I’m not that kind of person in this department, unfortunately.”

“From the way you wield your blade, I never would have guessed.”

“I could say the same for you.”

Siegfried doesn’t want to figure out what Aglovale means by that. He focuses instead on the sensation of Aglovale’s fingers in his hair, hands spreading across the plane of the other man’s stomach, tracing the lines of sharp bone against soft skin as he pushes up under the hem of Aglovale’s shirt. There is a soft intake of breath from Aglovale as Siegfried maps his body with careful slowness, learning which spots to avoid, where Aglovale had been hurt the day before. There is an ugly bruising in his side, where the skin is purplish and yellowed, which brings a frown to Siegfried’s face.

“Don’t get too preoccupied with the small details,” Aglovale commands, hands tugging to angle Siegfried towards him. “It’ll fade with time.”

Siegfried sighs. That may be true, but being confronted with a visual reminder of his transgressions that had landed him in this situation to begin with, with Aglovale in his arms, is nothing too pleasant either.

“Hopefully I’ll do a better job this round,” Siegfried comments wryly. “I never imagined that things would come to this.”

Aglovale chuckles lowly, pushing the hair out of Siegfried’s face. “Me neither,” he says.

"Really?"

“Why, did you think that I was the sort to casually proposition another?” Aglovale smirks. “Did I give that impression?”

“Well,” Siegfried answers truthfully, “that’s what you just did.”

Aglovale seems to think this particular comment hilarious, because laughter finds its way to his lips again, a pleasant noise that makes Siegfried want to press his mouth to Aglovale’s throat, to kiss him where he moves. He does exactly that, listening to Aglovale speak between low hums as Siegfried bites into his skin.

“It’s true that I do not seek something so grand as _commitment_ from anyone,” Aglovale chuckles, the deep emotion in his voice obvious. “It’s just been some time.”

Some time - since what? Since Aglovale has met someone that could be his match, that could drag him off his throne, turn him from the king of Wales into an ordinary man? That’s impossible, Siegfried thinks. No one could unseat someone like Aglovale from where he wants to be, and the man wants to be a ruler. Someone like Aglovale could never be ordinary.

He’s fascinating; a different kind of king from what Siegfried knows.

“Think of this as a parting gift, then.” He sighs, slipping a hand lower to ease Aglovale’s legs apart. “Though you might get into trouble if one of your men walks in to check on you.”

“ _You’d_ be the one getting into trouble,” corrects Aglovale. He pauses mid-sentence to tip his head back into the pillows, groaning as Siegfried palms against him.

Siegfried shrugs. Aglovale has been surprisingly responsive thus far, and Siegfried has no desire to stop now that they’ve actually started.

“I'd better pick up the pace.” Siegfried's breath ghosts over Aglovale’s skin, the hand that he has lowered slipping under fabric to wrap around Aglovale. “You don’t want to only listen to me talk, do you?”

“Not at all,” Aglovale breathes. His tone is almost amiable as he half-glares up at Siegfried, though without much severity. “I would prefer if you could focus your attention here instead.”

Siegfried does not expect Aglovale to show him out the next day, and indeed, the king does not.

The two of them rise around the same time, throwing their discarded clothing on, with Siegfried trying not to get his shirt on backwards while Aglovale fixes his hair to look partway presentable. There is no one in the hallways to see Siegfried leaving Aglovale’s private chambers, dropping by his own guest room to change into his dark armor and retrieve his greatsword.

By the time he reaches the main hall, Aglovale is already there in his usual garb, looking every bit the king that he is. Seated atop his throne, blond hair pulled back over his shoulders, Aglovale seems nothing at all like the man who had almost kicked Siegfried off the bed in agitation when the after-hours conversation somehow turned to Percival’s love life (which was nonexistent, as far as he was aware). He’s also busy with his work again, speaking to the regents around him, and Siegfried only throws him a wave from across the room before he makes his exit.

Aglovale nods, and dismisses him.

Lancelot is the one that greets Siegfried on the grounds. The knight’s dark hair is a mess, as though he’d just ran all the way from Feendrache to Wales instead of coming via carriage.

“Everyone was so stressed,” Lancelot laughs, as he leads Siegfried to their ride. “Percival would _not_ shut up about his brother. I think he’s just worried about you being in the same room as Aglovale.”

Siegfried deigns it unnecessary to burden Lancelot with the information that not only has he already entered Aglovale’s room, the room is also not the the only thing that he’s been into.

“He’s not that bad,” he says eventually, earning a comically loud gasp from Lancelot.

“You’d better tell that to Percival then. He’d be happy to know that you and Aglovale are capable of exchanging more than two sentences.”

Again, they’ve already exchanged more than just words, but Siegfried shoves the intrusive thoughts away before he can blurt them out.

“Does he think that I dislike Aglovale?” he settles on saying.

Lancelot stops them right in front of a small carriage, drawn by two horses with a driver waiting patiently by the animals’ side. He gives the man a nod, before gesturing for Siegfried to board with him. As Siegfried moves through the doorway, carefully adjusting himself so that his weapon can fit through, Lancelot continues to speak.

“Not exactly? I think he’s concerned that you would rub each other the wrong way.” Lancelot shrugs, dropping himself on the seat opposite Siegfried as the carriage begins to move.

“That hasn’t happened yet.”

Siegfried’s witnessed firsthand the way Aglovale lives for Wales. If anything, he has his sights set too high, something Siegfried cannot understand because his own king does not rule the same way that Aglovale does. Aglovale’s desire for a peaceful, perfect country and his quest to be a good king are paths that Siegfried will never walk. But if he wants to build a kingdom, a land - a home - good enough for someone else to return to, Siegfried cannot begrudge him for that simple yet selfish desire.

“Aglovale makes a fine king,” Siegfried decides, watching the green hills of Wales speed past as the carriage picks up pace. “There’s nothing for me to dislike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on a dare for explicit Siegfried/Aglovale content, except it also exploded into something else. Also thank you GBF fes for feeding us all kinds of food :')


End file.
